"Hope Remembered IV: Kindred" Highlander Fanfiction (November 1999) by Parda
Not my universe, not my characters. PG-15 (profanity, reference to violence and rape)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Hope Remembered 4: Kindred" and "Dearer Yet the Brotherhood" are companion stories, so if you're curious about some of the things that happen "off-stage" in this story, you can find them in the other one. "Kindred" is the fourth part of the novel "Hope Remembered." While I have tried to make each part complete in itself, there are references in this story to past events.
Hope Remembered IV
KINDRED
The coming of the winter
At the approach of an Immortal, Connor MacLeod dropped the empty feed bucket and reached for his sword, then moved silently to the window near the stable door. Cassandra was coming up the drive, the tires of the small, green car crunching on the gravel. Connor tucked his sword into his coat, then put the bucket away. Dian whickered as he walked past, and Connor stopped to give the bay stallion a pat. "We'll ride later," Connor promised the horse, and he went to greet his guest.
Cassandra was taking a suitcase from the back seat of her car, but she straightened as he approached and set it on the ground next to her duffel bag. Her gray coat hung to her knees, unbuttoned. From the way she was standing, her sword was probably hidden in the folds of her long skirt, close to her left thigh. She was watching him, both hands by her sides, waiting,
Cautious now, wasn't she? Connor stopped several paces away. His hands were also by his sides. "Cassandra."
"Connor." She seemed prepared to stand there all day. The only motion about her was the faint clouds of white from her breath in the frosty air.
At least they didn't have their swords at each other's throats. That was how they usually said hello in the Highlands. Connor hoped things had changed. "Good to see you," he ventured, smiling just a little.
"It's good to be here," Cassandra answered, with an equally small smile. Then she waited, her hands still at her sides, still watching, her eyes as dark-green as her skirt.
She certainly had changed, or maybe reverted. Connor wasn't used to being on the talkative side of a war of silence. Well, it was his house, and he was supposed to be the gracious host. For a change. "Come on in," he said, walking toward her and then picking up her bag. "We've been making cookies."
This time her smile was real, a smile that brought emerald sparkles to her eyes, a smile he had forgotten.
Connor found himself returning it with a real smile of his own. It truly was good to see her. He had been sure she was dead.
"Cass!" Alex exclaimed as Connor and Cassandra entered the kitchen. The house smelled of evergreens and the warm crispness of Christmas cookies, and the song "Silent Night" played on the radio.
John looked up from rolling out cookie dough and called, "Hi, Cassandra!"
"Hello, John. Hello, Alex," Cassandra replied, setting down her suitcase and then taking off her coat. "It's good to see you."
Alex wiped the flour from her hands hurriedly and came over. "I have to turn sideways," she said with a smile, as the two women embraced. "I'm huge."
"You look beautiful!" Cassandra exclaimed, pulling back to look at her.
"But huge."
"Yes," Cassandra admitted, laughing. "Huge. But you are having twins. And soon."
"Any day now," Alex said. "I'm ready."
"Soon enough," Cassandra answered, her laughter gone. "Soon enough." She smiled then and turned to John. "And you're huge, too. How much have you grown since this summer?"
"About two inches," John said proudly.
"And about ten pounds," Connor said, then added deliberately, "Mostly cookies and cake."
"Come on, Dad!" John protested. "It is not! I've been lifting weights."
"Yes, you have," Connor agreed. "So you can take Cassandra's things to the guest room, right?"
John stopped with his mouth half-open, then grinned. "Right." He grabbed the bag and the suitcase, then took off down the hall.
Alex shook her head and smiled at Connor, then suggested, "Connor, why don't you and Cass go talk in the new part of the house? John and I will finish up here, and then we can eat lunch."
"You sure?" Connor asked, not wanting to leave Alex with all the work, especially since their housekeeper, Mrs. MacNabb, was gone until after Christmas.
"We only have a few more batches to make, and I know you two have 'business' to discuss that John certainly doesn't need to hear about." She turned to Cassandra. "We'll talk later, Cass, while John and Connor go riding this afternoon. Unless you'd like to go riding, too?"
"Later," Cassandra said. "Maybe tomorrow. I want to talk with you." She gave Alex one of her brilliant smiles, and then she walked with Connor through the wood-paneled hall. "What are you going to call the new part of the house, now that you've added a even newer part?" Cassandra asked as they walked past the stairs.
Connor shrugged. "Old, new, and newer, I guess. John will come up with something." The farmhouse was a common style - two rooms up and two rooms down, with a central hall and stairwell - but a "new part" had been added about a century ago, changing the building from a rectangle to an el. They had just had another extension built onto the house, widening the el. Now there was a nursery and a playroom on the second floor, and a study and a guest suite on the first.
Connor and Cassandra went into the new part, the large room that served as the main living area.. Cassandra crossed the room to stare out the window that overlooked the valley to the south, while Connor added a log to the fire. "Want a drink?" Connor asked, pouring himself a glass of Glenmorangie at the liquor cabinet.
"Yes," she answered, joining him and examining the selection.
"So, you do like whisky," Connor observed as she reached for the Fionnmore.
"It's like a lot of Scottish things." Cassandra poured herself a shot. "A bit strong at first, but it grows on you."
"Like haggis?" he suggested.
"I've never become fond of haggis," she replied, with a sidelong glance in his direction. "Unless you were referring to Ramirez?"
Connor snorted in amusement and surprise. He had forgotten she knew his nickname for his former teacher, her former lover. "He wasn't Scottish. Or Spanish."
"No," she agreed, smiling slightly. "He was not." Then she waited with her glass raised for him to make the first toast.
Connor lifted his own glass. "Cardeis," he said quietly. To friendship.
Cassandra's smile faded as she met his gaze. "Cardeis," she repeated softly, and clinked her glass with his. They drank deeply, but slowly, savoring the golden liquor, then Cassandra lifted her glass again. "To Ramirez!" she proclaimed.
Connor grinned. "To Ramirez, the old haggis!" This time they both tossed back their drinks.
She let out a slow breath, then sat in one of the chairs near the fire. She waited until he sat down across from her before she spoke. "I've been drinking a lot of whisky lately."
That was not necessarily a good thing. He knew. "By yourself?"
"At first. But not anymore." She twirled the glass between her hands. "You were right, Connor. I needed to talk to someone."
"And you did." Connor carefully kept the surprise out of his voice. He knew Cassandra didn't know many people, mortal or Immortal, certainly not many she could have talked to about such things.
"Yes, I've been staying with her these last few weeks. She was an 'old' acquaintance."
So, Cassandra's confidante was an Immortal, and a woman. That was best. Cassandra had not been in the mood to talk to a man. Any man. Connor wondered who this other Immortal was, but if Cassandra had wanted him to know, she would have told him her name. And asking personal questions about other Immortals was considered - rude. Not that that would have stopped him, if he had really wanted to know, but Cassandra was entitled to some privacy.
Cassandra added, almost in surprise, "She's a new friend." She laughed slightly, almost painfully. "I'm not used to having friends." She gave Connor a quick glance, a shy smile. "It's a good feeling."
He nodded and lifted his glass, acknowledging the friendship that was between them now. "Yes. It is."
John came into the room, carrying a pile of letters, then set them on the desk in the corner. "More Christmas cards, Dad. There's even one for Cassandra!" He walked over to her and handed her a plain white envelope.
She barely glanced at it before she set the letter face down on the chair. "Thank you, John," she said with a warm smile, and he smiled back and left the room.
"Your new friend?" Connor asked, surprised - and not pleased - that she had given out his address.
"No." Cassandra stood and went to the window, staring out at the faded gray landscape, her arms hugging herself close. "My old enemy."
Connor swore softly to himself and picked up the letter. The address was printed neatly, saying simply "Cassandra, c/o Connor MacLeod, Glenaladale, Scotland." The postmark was from Paris and there was no return address, but Connor knew who had sent it. Roland.
"He's been dead six months, and he's still following me." Cassandra did not sound surprised.
"You don't have to read it," Connor said, coming to stand with her at the window.
She took the letter from his hand. "Yes, I do."
Connor nodded and left her there alone.
When Connor came back from frosting the last batch of cookies, Cassandra was kneeling in front of the fireplace, watching the letter burn. She rose gracefully, dusted off her hands, and joined him at the door.
"Anything I should know?" Connor asked, as they walked through the hall to the kitchen.
"No." She did not look his way. "It's over."
He doubted that, but at least there were no more Immortal enemies out there hunting her. No more than usual, anyway. None that she knew about. Just a normal, everyday life for an Immortal.
Still, Cassandra was relaxed during lunch, smiling at John's jokes, laughing with Alex, talking of the babies and history and school. A normal, everyday life for a family. Connor dismissed the letter from his mind. Roland had probably just been gloating, sending her one more little reminder from the grave.
They tidied up the kitchen, and then Connor and Cassandra went back to the living room to finish their talk. He still hadn't found out what had happened in Bordeaux with her old enemies the Four Horsemen, and he wanted to know. They had not even sat down when the sense of an Immortal crawled up and down his spine. Connor immediately headed for the door, intent on getting to his katana that hung from its hook on the wall. Cassandra followed. They both stopped a few feet from the hallway when John's excited voice reached them from the kitchen. "Uncle Dunc!"
Connor relaxed.
Cassandra did not. She turned to Connor and said mildly, "You didn't tell me Duncan was coming, Connor."
"I didn't know," Connor answered and watched as her polite mask appeared - faintly curving lips, serene eyes, relaxed hands and posture - all lies. "I'll bring him here," Connor offered then went to the kitchen to greet Duncan, leaving Cassandra standing in the middle of the room. This was going to be interesting.
"Duncan!" Connor called as he came into the kitchen, where Duncan was busy eating a cookie. Connor gave him a hug. "It's good to see you!"
"Thanks, Connor," Duncan said. "I know I didn't call, but you said visit anytime..."
"Anytime," Connor agreed, slapping him on the shoulder.
"Uncle Dunc, will you come riding with us?" John asked.
"Sure, John," Duncan replied. "Later though, OK? I'm hungry, and I need to talk to your dad."
"You two go on and discuss your 'business,' and get that over with," Alex said, urging them both from the kitchen and away from John. "Duncan, I'll fix you some lunch while you're talking."
"Come on, Duncan," Connor said. "There's whisky and a fire in here." He led the way to the living room, then stood aside to let Duncan go first.
Duncan stopped short in the doorway. "Cassandra!"
"Duncan." She acknowledged him with a tight smile. "You're always so surprised to see me."
"At least this time you're not trying to take my head," Duncan said, going into the room.
Was that a joke? Connor wasn't sure, and neither Duncan nor Cassandra was smiling. Connor hadn't found it funny when Cassandra had held a sword to his throat. Either time. "Cassandra just got here," Connor said, as he walked past Duncan to the liquor cabinet. Duncan nodded, still watching Cassandra. She ignored him. Connor said cheerily, "Want a drink?"
Both Duncan and Cassandra immediately joined him at the liquor cabinet. Duncan poured himself a glass of Lagavullan, while Cassandra reached for the Fionnmore again. "Connor?" she asked, and he nodded. She poured him another drink, too, and then the three of them stood there, silent, their glasses in their hands.
Connor wondered how long it would take before either Cassandra or Duncan spoke. He was tempted to wait, but it was his house and the duty fell to him. "Deoch-Slainte!" he suggested, and the others joined him in the toast with relief.
He sat down again in the chair near the fire, and watched the pair of them maneuver. Cassandra took the center of the couch this time, claiming the entire width of it for her territory by spreading out her skirt, an empress on her throne. Duncan was left with the other chair, sitting across from Connor. Then Duncan and Cassandra ignored each other. Connor leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. What had the hell had happened in Bordeaux? A lovers' quarrel? A fight over toothpaste? Or was this all about the Horsemen?
"So," Connor started, when the silence had stretched thin, "how have you been, Duncan?"
"Oh, fine."
"Been traveling?"
"Not really." Duncan took a large swallow of his whisky.
And Duncan was supposed to be the talkative MacLeod. Connor decided to give Cassandra a try. "Traveled much lately, Cassandra?"
"Some," she admitted, her cool gaze ironic and unhelpful.
Connor took another sip of his drink and decided he would simply wait them out. He knew he could outwait Duncan; he wasn't so sure about Cassandra. She had had a lot of practice in waiting, and she knew how to be silent. Yes, Duncan would be the one to crack.
It didn't take long, but Cassandra spoke first. "Have you seen him?" she asked Duncan, sharp and clear.
Duncan cleared his throat and answered low and quiet, "Not since Bordeaux. He left two days after..."
After what? Connor wondered. And who was "he"? When Connor and Duncan had spoken on the telephone last month, Duncan had said only that the Horsemen were finished. Apparently, that did not mean dead. Or at least, not all of them.
Cassandra did not seem interested in silence anymore. "Your friend hasn't called you?" There was a definite twist on the word "friend," and it was not a pleasant one.
Duncan's response wasn't pleasant, either. "No more than you," he shot back. "At least Methos said good-bye before he left."
Connor nodded to himself. So, it was Methos then, Duncan's friend and Cassandra's enemy. That hadn't changed. Had Methos really been a Horseman? And if so, why was Duncan still friends with him?
"I sent you a letter, Duncan," came Cassandra's even reply. "And there was nothing more to say. You wanted Methos to live, and I permitted him to live."
Connor sat up at that, intrigued. Cassandra had had a chance to take Methos's head? And she had stopped because of Duncan?
"Or did you want something more from me?" she asked, the evenness of her voice going sharp again. "That wasn't enough?"
Duncan obviously wasn't going to touch that one. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the fire. Cassandra went silent once more, but she wasn't retreating. She was waiting. Connor lifted his eyebrows and his glass. She had changed. Over the centuries, Roland had beaten all defiance and aggressiveness out of her, but sometime during the last few months, Cassandra had learned how to attack.
After a moment, Duncan sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Cassandra," he began, leaning towards her, his eyes sympathetic, his expression sincere and caring, all of his considerable charm coming forth, "I know it wasn't easy for you."
For once, Duncan's charm wasn't working. Cassandra shot to her feet and paced between the piano and the couch, then stopped and glared at Duncan. "You have no idea," she snapped.
Duncan set his glass down and stood to face her. "Cassandra, Methos told me what he did to you, about your time in the camp, and-"
"He told you?" she broke in, her anger gone in shock and disbelief. Her face was white, and she was gripping the back of the couch with both hands.
Duncan stopped, then looked to Connor for help. Connor had none to offer. He had no idea what was going on, or what Methos had done. Besides the usual rape, torture, enslavement, and killing, that is. This was something worse. Worse? What could be worse?
Duncan turned back to Cassandra. "Yes," he admitted.
"He told you," she repeated, nodding slowly to herself, the shock dulled to horrified acceptance.
Connor had held Cassandra weeping in his arms, and he had seen her weeping at his feet. But he had never seen her so fragile before, as if she would shatter at a touch. And of course, Duncan reached out to touch her. She whirled away and Duncan called, "Cassandra!" but she was already gone.
Duncan started to follow her, but Connor stopped him at the door with a hand on his arm and a shake of the head. Whatever this was about, Connor knew that Cassandra did not want Duncan to see her now.
Connor got the story from Duncan about what had happened in Bordeaux, and then he went to look for Cassandra. He found her in the exercise room on the second-floor of the barn, beating the hell out of a speed-bag. She had a good rhythm going, the small bag whappeting back and forth. Maybe she could show John her technique.
He decided to do some chin-ups while he waited for her to finish. His arms were beginning to tremble with fatigue before there was any pause in her assault on the bag. She moved away from the bag to stare out the small window, and Connor dropped to the floor, then went to the weight bench close by her and sat down. He picked one of the smaller barbells and started to tighten the nut on the end, keeping his eyes on his work as he asked, "Want to talk?"
"Duncan didn't tell you?" Her voice had that same brittleness, that same fragility he had seen in the living room.
"I didn't ask." He set the barbell down and looked at her. She was standing by the window, her arms held tightly across her body, trying to protect herself, trying to breathe her way through pain. He had seen her in that pose before. "But I'll listen."
She nodded slowly then gave a small snort of unamused laughter. "You're good at that. Now."
Connor snorted in the same way. "I've had some practice lately."
"Yes," she admitted. "It's helped." The brittleness had gone, but the pain was still there. She still wasn't looking at him, but she said softly, "You've helped." Cassandra made another sound, a painful whimper. "I'm not used to that, either."
Help from him, or help of any kind? Both. Connor went to stand near her, but not too close. "Friends help," he reminded her. "And friends listen."
She nodded again, then after a moment she started to talk, staring out the window at nothing. "I told you I was a slave in the Horsemen's camp." The brittleness returned. "But I didn't tell you Methos was my master."
"You belonged only to him?"
Cassandra shook her head. "He owned me."
Connor shrugged, not understanding the distinction.
"He owned me," Cassandra repeated. "Body, mind, and soul. At first, I hated him. He had killed my tribe, and me. But he told me he would ... tame me, and he did. After a week or two, I wasn't angry at him when he hurt me; I was simply grateful to him when he didn't. Then he started to offer me pleasure." She closed her eyes as she admitted, whispering, "And I took it." Cassandra tossed her hair back from her face, shaking her head in disgust. "After a few months, I didn't even want to escape. I wanted to stay with him and keep him happy. It was all I lived for."
"He brainwashed you," Connor said, knowing how terrifyingly easy it was to do that to a person, when there was unlimited time and unlimited pain.
"He tamed me," Cassandra corrected. "I would have done anything for him. And I did." She wasn't done with the guilt. "I betrayed the memory of my people. I made love to the man who had murdered my father, and I thought myself honored to be allowed even to touch him." She paused again then shrugged and moved on. "But one day his brother Kronos came to the tent, and said it was time to 'share the spoils of war.' So, Methos shared.
"I resisted Kronos at first, but I wasn't protecting myself. I was protecting my master's property. That was my duty. I even called for him, when I was with Kronos. I called his name over and over, but he never answered. He was there in the camp, listening, but he never came. I knew then I had failed my master, and he would never want me again."
Connor closed his own eyes now. Ownership, failure, betrayal, guilt, pain - all knotted together to enmesh her in the bond she had thought of as love.
Cassandra continued, her voice dry and brittle, a withered leaf carried by the wind. "When I realized that, it didn't matter anymore. I didn't matter anymore. So, I stopped resisting Kronos." The leaf floated to the ground, dead. "But I knew the other three Horsemen would just pass me around, again and again, forever. I didn't know about beheading; I truly thought I could not die. And I could not live like that."
"Is that when you stabbed Kronos?" Connor asked.
"Yes. The first night with him, in his tent. Kronos had left the knife he had been using on the floor, and when I was ... when he had his eyes closed, I picked up his knife and I killed him, and then I ran."
That had been a hell of a chance to take, Connor knew. Kronos wouldn't have simply "tamed" her if he had survived her attack; he would have destroyed her - slowly. "Where did you go?"
"I don't know," she said. "Across the wilderness. I had been raised in the desert, so I knew how to survive, but I still died several times before I found a tribe that would take me in." Cassandra moved now, for the first time she had started to tell the tale. She wandered over to the weight machine, toyed idly with the chain that held up the heavy plates. "Do you know, I didn't even get angry at Methos for anything he'd done to me for over a century? I actually felt ... guilty, for having disappointed him in some way, so that he didn't want to keep me anymore."
"And?"
"And one day, while I was watching a man break in a new horse, I finally realized what Methos had done to me. He had been training me to be his obedient slave, his little toy. He had been laughing at me as I scurried to do his bidding." She curled her hand around the chain, tightened her grip until her fingers went white. "When I finally realized that, I felt so ... used. So stupid. So completely and totally stupid."
"Well," she said, letting go of the chain, wiping the black grease from her hand onto a small, white rag, "I don't have to tell you what that feels like, do I, Connor?"
She didn't. He knew. She had made him feel like a worthless, stupid toy on that day in Aberdeen.
"I'm so sorry, Connor," she said, near tears, her hands clasped together in a penitential prayer. "I never meant to hurt you, not like that. Not the same way he..."
"It wasn't the same," Connor told her, knowing the truth now, seeing her anguish. "You didn't mean to. He did. You're not like him, Cassandra."
"Oh yes, I am," she insisted. "We're both liars. We've both watched people die in agony, and we did nothing. We've let other people own us and use us. And we have both used and owned and killed people, too."
"For hundreds of years, Cassandra?" Connor asked, trying to make her see reason. "How many people has he killed? How many have you killed?"
"One person dead, one million dead," she said in despair, twisting the rag between her hands. "Does it matter to our victims how many others we've destroyed? They're still dead, and we're still guilty."
"Do you really think you're as bad as the Horsemen?" he demanded.
"No," she answered slowly. "Because I care. But that doesn't matter to the dead, either, whether I stand over their graves weeping, or whether I ride off laughing. They're dead, and they'll always be dead."
"It matters to the living," Connor told her. "And it matters to me." She looked up at that, and Connor said bluntly, "If I thought you didn't care about killing people, or about what you did to me, I'd have taken your head six months ago."
Cassandra shut her mouth after a moment then said wryly, "And that's supposed make me feel better."
"It ought to," Connor said then asked, "You think Methos told Duncan?"
"Brothers share everything," she said simply, looking out the window again. "I could hear the Horsemen talking, when they sat around the fire at night, discussing which slave had the biggest tits, the tightest ass, which one was best at" She stopped and shrugged. "That's nothing new; men always talk about women like that. And I know Methos told Roland everything." The words came faster now, rising in pitch and volume. "How to tame me, how to use me, what I liked, what I didn't, how to touch me, how to-"
"The letter?" Connor guessed, interrupting her before she got hysterical. This was Roland gloating.
She nodded and said bitterly, "And Methos told Duncan, too."
"Cassandra, Duncan wouldn't listen. Not to that."
"No?" she challenged, turning to face him. "You and Duncan have never talked about women, Connor?" Her eyebrows lifted in complete disbelief. "Not even whores?"
Connor wasn't going to answer that. "Duncan wouldn't have listened to that kind of talk about you."
"No," she agreed, finally. "Probably not. But enough. Duncan knows I was not only a slave, but an obedient and willing slave. Methos told him. Methos just had to humiliate me, one more time." She lashed out with one arm, punching the speedbag hard enough so that it hit the top of its frame and rattled on the wall. "I never wanted anyone to know."
"You told me," Connor pointed out, sitting on the weight bench again.
"And I told Ramirez, and my first husband, and my first teacher. But no one else. Ever. And I've never told anyone about Roland, not all of it. Except you." She wandered over, sat down on the small stool near him, and ventured a smile as she wound the rag about her fingers. "Earlier, we toasted to careas, to friendship. But, you are not just a cariad, a friend, to me, Connor. You are ... an anamchara."
Connor shook his head, for though he could translate the Gaelic word as "soul friend," he wasn't sure of its precise meaning.
"In Ireland, when the Christians first came," Cassandra explained, "they brought the sacrament of confession with them. Other Christians had confession, but it was done in public, more for humiliation than repentance. The Irish made confession private, and your confessor didn't have to be a priest, but someone you chose, someone you could trust with your soul. An anamchara is someone who will listen, and care, but who won't let you get away with less than what you should be, who forces you to be honest with yourself."
Connor rubbed his hands on his thighs, remembering the high leaping of Cassandra's pulse under his fingers back in June, when he had grabbed her by the throat and snarled at her, "Don't lie to me, Cassandra. Not again. Not ever." Then he had tightened his grip, taking grim pleasure at the terror in her eyes. If forcing her to be honest was a requirement for this anamchara role, he qualified.
"I needed that, Connor," Cassandra said, obviously remembering the same thing. "Lying had become a habit for me."
"Broken it yet?"
"Almost. Sometimes I forget, but I'm trying."
"Good. I'll make sure you remember," he told her, accepting the responsibility of being her "anamchara." God knew she needed one. "Want to go riding?" he suggested, ready to move on.
"No," she said, walking over to the window yet again. "You go with John and Duncan. I can't ride in this mood; I'll frighten the horse. And, would you tell Alex that I need to be by myself for awhile?"
"Going to break something?"
"Yes."
Cassandra waited until the MacLeods had left the stable before she moved. There was nothing here to break, except the windows and the mirrors, and she didn't want to destroy. But she could hit something.
She went to the punching bag and started to hit it, but it wasn't enough. She could barely feel the pain in her hands. The wall was better. The rough concrete split the skin on her knuckles, and she kept hitting.
Damn Methos. Damn him, damn him, damn him. Whatever god he prayed to, whatever name he called upon, be it Baal or Christ or Ninkasi or Zeus, she hoped that god would blast him or abandon him or bury him in a pit of sand for the rest of his days.
Damn him! Cassandra slammed her fist into the wall and cracked the bones of her hand. She could feel - and hear - the bones grind together, the edges jagged under the skin. Before the healing was finished, she slammed her hand into the wall again. And again. And again.
Finally, she stopped, a retching nausea driving her to her knees, her hand cradled gently against her. It healed, of course, the skin smooth and unbroken, the bones whole and straight. The blood was still there.
Cassandra stood and started to hit the wall once more, until she broke the other hand. She waited until it healed, then she stood and hit the wall again.
And again, and again, and again.
When Connor and Duncan and John returned from riding, it was near dark, even though it was midafternoon. There was not much daylight two days before the winter solstice. There was no light on in the stable, either, but Cassandra was still there, her Immortal presence clear.
After he unsaddled Dian, Connor went up the stairs to the exercise room, wondering what he would find. The mirrors smashed? Holes gouged in the floor? The innards of the punching bag strewn about the room?
But there was nothing, just the dark shadow of Cassandra standing by the window, her arms folded tight across her body. "I thought you were going to break something," he said, trying to make a joke of it, wondering what she had been doing for the last hour and a half.
She did not turn. "I did."
Connor flipped the light switch, then glanced around the room again, wondering what he had missed. Nothing. Maybe she had gone outside for a while and come back in. Connor approached cautiously, and then he saw the wall. Red and brown smears stained the white paint.
He walked to stand in front of her and held out both his hands, palms up. She did not move. "Anamchara," he called her, claiming the right and the responsibility to know, offering the friendship of the soul.
She did not look at him, but slowly laid her hands in his. The skin was smooth, the hands graceful, the fingers gently curved. Blood stained the back of both hands, old and new, bright red and dried brown. Shreds of tattered flesh clung to the knuckles and the nails.
Connor closed his eyes briefly, then called to her again. "Cassandra."
She looked at him now - angry, defiant, and ashamed.
"Don't hurt yourself like this," he said softly.
She wrenched her hands away and hid them once again. "Why not?" she demanded. "They heal, and I'm used to it. Roland did it. Methos did it, too, over and over again, one finger at a time. Then he would order me to touch him, to pleasure him, to-"
She stopped and slammed her fist into the wall, and Connor winced at both the image and at the sharp crack of breaking bones.
Cassandra swung around and glared at him, her hand dangling limp and twisted at her side. "Or would you rather I broke more of your dishes? Or maybe the mirror?"
"No, not the mirror. John likes that mirror."
That stopped her, as he had hoped it would, even brought the trace of a smile. "Does he?"
"He lifts weights in front of it. Watches his muscles flex." Her smile almost appeared, but she was still upset. Maybe talking to Alex would help her; he was out of ideas. "Alex is waiting for you inside."
Cassandra hesitated, and Connor added pointedly, "She's your friend, too."
"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "She is."
Alex was waiting for her in the kitchen, doing a crossword puzzle and drinking a cup of tea. "What's a five-letter word for an old Scottish coin, starts with B?" Alex asked.
"Bodle," Cassandra answered after a moment. It had been a long time since she had lived in Scotland, and money was always changing.
Alex filled in the word and the others that crossed it while Cassandra got herself a cup of tea. When Cassandra sat at the table, Alex set down her pen and took off her reading glasses. "How have you been, Cass?" she asked, intent and concerned.
Cassandra shrugged and added sugar to her teacup, then held the spoon gingerly as she stirred the tea. She had taken a shower and changed her clothes, then washed her hands over and over again, but they still hurt with the memory of pain. "Not too good," she admitted finally. "But better now."
"Are you still dreaming every night?"
"No," Cassandra said. "Not every night." She tried to smile. "Once I even went four nights in a row without dreaming. These last few weeks I've been talking with a woman, an Immortal, who was abused by a man recently." Abused was a mild term for it. Elena had been tortured, raped, and brutalized by an Immortal named Claude Bethel for twenty-three days. She'd even lost her eye; Bethel had gouged it out with a palette knife. Cassandra shuddered slightly and went on. "It helped us both to face those memories, instead of running from them."
"That's good, isn't it?" Alex said.
"Better is not always good," Cassandra answered dryly. "It's more like 'not as bad.'" The dreams weren't as frequent, and the voices in her head had gone silent, but the rage was still there. Cassandra and Elena had talked about Roland and Bethel, and a little about Methos, but Elena and Duncan were lovers, and Cassandra hadn't been able to talk about Duncan at all.
"Connor's been worried," Alex said. "About you and Duncan."
"We were hunting some old enemies, and things got ... complicated for a while," Cassandra replied, telling the truth in essence if not in detail, knowing how curious Alex must be. "But they're dead, and we're alive, and it's over." Mostly.
"Do you want to talk about it more, with me?" Alex asked. "Connor and Duncan took John to his karate class; they won't be back for at least two hours."
"It's a long story, Alex. Longer than that." Much longer. Cassandra set down the spoon and sipped at her tea. It was hot and sweet and tasted of raspberries, and she was in the Highlands for Christmas with her best friend. "It's over," she said again, unwilling to spoil the mood, unwilling to remember. "Let's talk about something else."
Alex lifted her eyebrows in an elegant challenge. "Do you think we can find something else to talk about?"
"Oh, maybe," Cassandra said. "One or two things. Like your babies, or your book, or the history of truffles."
"Or excavation techniques, or John's soccer team, or gardening. One or two things," Alex agreed gravely, then the two women shared a smile.
They were still talking when Connor and Duncan and John got back from karate, and they hadn't even begun.
After dinner, they gathered around the fireplace in the living room. Connor and Alex took the couch; Cassandra faced Duncan in the chairs. John lay on the rug, watching the fire. "I wish you'd let us know you were coming, Duncan," Alex said. "Tomorrow is your birthday, and we've already mailed your presents to Paris."
"Then I'll have something to open when I get home," Duncan answered, cheerful as always. "I can celebrate it twice."
Cassandra set down her coffee cup, trying to remember the last time anyone had bought her a present. Probably Ramirez, she decided, over five hundred years ago, that blue silk gown he had given to her when they had lived in Spain. Her new friend Elena had given her a sword, and Cassandra treasured it both as a weapon and as a gift, but Elena hadn't actually gone out and bought it just for her. The sword had been part of Elena's collection, one of many hanging on a wall.
"We're going to make him a cake, aren't we, Alex?" John asked, as he rolled over onto his back then put his hands behind his head.
"Sounds like you want us to make you a cake," Alex answered fondly.
"Better get your piece right away, Duncan," Connor warned. "John will eat the whole cake if you let him."
"I was hungry," John explained, full of righteous indignation, "and spice cake is my favorite."
"Mine, too," Connor said, and Cassandra met his eyes in sudden apprehension, for she had made a spice cake for Connor, long ago. He had smashed it to the floor and then made a wreckage of her dreams. But he was smiling at her now, and she tried to smile, too. Peace, between them.
"What's your favorite kind of cake, Uncle Dunc?" asked John.
Duncan turned his attention to his nephew. "Oh, I'm not particular, John."
About much of anything, Cassandra thought. Certainly not about his friends.
"I like all kinds of cake," Duncan continued.
"We'll make chocolate," John announced.
"Good!" Duncan said, then he turned to her. "So, Cassandra," he began, "you'd said you'd been doing some traveling this last month. Any place special?"
As if he cared. Cassandra reached for her coffee cup then leaned back in her chair. "No."
"I have your laptop computer," Duncan offered, "and the clothes you left in Bordeaux. They're in Paris, but I can mail them to you later, if you'd like."
"Yes."
Duncan hesitated, then apparently decided to bother Connor instead. "So, Connor," Duncan began again, still with that same annoying cheerfulness, "Cassandra told me that she was your teacher."
Cassandra didn't want to meet Connor's eyes now. She shouldn't have told Duncan anything, not without Connor's approval. But Connor didn't seem too bothered by it; he answered easily enough, "Yes."
Duncan wasn't done digging. "Here in the Highlands?"
"Yes."
Duncan looked back and forth between her and Connor, then commented, "You never mentioned that before."
"Lots of things don't get mentioned, Duncan," Cassandra said as she set her cup down carefully. "Some of them are important; some of them aren't."
"I just think it's a little ... odd, that's all."
"Why?" she demanded. "Are you the only one allowed any privacy?"
"No, but"
"Then don't expect to be the only one to have secrets, and don't expect to be the only one to lie," Cassandra told him, and she got up and left the room.
Connor caught up to her in the kitchen, and she stopped with her back against the table, her hands at her sides. "Look, Cassandra," Connor said, "it's Christmas time, and Alex could have the babies any day. She does not need two houseguests who are at each other's throats."
Cassandra nodded, understanding. Duncan was his brother, and he was home for Christmas. She had no place here. She could leave the presents she had brought and drive back to the airport. She hadn't even unpacked yet. It would be easy.
She hadn't even really started to talk with Alex yet, and she had nowhere to go. It was hard. Cassandra forced herself to calmness, to feel nothing, to expect nothing. She nodded again, then headed for her room to get her suitcase.
Connor stepped in front of her, blocking her way. "Where are you going?"
She shrugged. It didn't matter. "The airport, I guess."
"I didn't say I wanted you to leave."
She hadn't wanted to wait to hear the words.
"I want you and Duncan to settle this between you, or start to. Can you do that?"
"You want me to stay?" Cassandra asked.
"Yes, Alex invited you," he said.
And Connor would do almost anything to keep his pregnant wife happy, even put up with her.
Then Connor added, "And I want you to be here."
"Do you?"
"Would I say that if I didn't mean it?" he asked, exasperated now.
"No." Connor certainly would not. Connor would have absolutely no problem telling her to get the hell out of his house. He had done it before. Cassandra blinked back sudden tears, both at what had been, and at what was.
"You were angry at Duncan when you got here, even before he told you about Methos," Connor observed.
"Yes," she admitted. She had been angry with Duncan since Bordeaux. "But he saved my life. I shouldn't be angry with him."
"Cassandra." The edge of exasperation became a growl of frustration. "You are angry. Don't just tell yourself you shouldn't be. Deal with it. Scream. Run. Do something."
She had done something, and her hands still hurt with the memory, but it hadn't been enough.
"Are you as angry with Duncan as you were with me?" he asked.
She had to smile at that. "Not even close."
Connor shrugged. "He can take it."
Cassandra was not so sure. "Connor ... I'm not angry only with him. I'm angry with Methos, and Roland, and Kronos, and ... and all of them." The rage was waiting, and it frightened her. "I don't know if I can control it."
He nodded, remembering.
"Can you be there?" she asked him. "In case..." In case she used the Voice to force Duncan to his knees. In case she started to take his head. In case she did to Duncan what she had done to Connor, and had done to Elena. Cassandra closed her eyes as the terrifying thrill of bloody rage and consuming power flooded through her again, as she remembered Immortals kneeling helpless at her feet, while she drew her arm back for the fatal blow.
Cassandra swallowed hard, feeling ill with mingled excitement and revulsion. She was not going to be like the Horsemen. She was not going to kill and enjoy it. And she wasn't going to control people anymore, not like that, not like Roland had done. "Can you be there, Connor?" she asked again, knowing how easily she could drown in that bloody pit of power, tasting how easily she could kill.
"Yeah, I can be there." Connor didn't seem to mind. He even looked pleased at the prospect.
She handed her sword to Connor. "I don't think I should have this right now."
Continued in Part 2, wherein Cassandra and Duncan have words